Four Poems By Brenton Booth

Brenton Booth is a writer from Sydney, Australia. I like the way he writes. 

BANGKOK AIRPORT

sitting at a starbucks in bangkok airport
stomach flat from two weeks at a muay
thai camp
mind weary from thirty-five years
yesterday i watched thousands of people
blocking the streets protesting the bad
government
they all had smiles on their faces and looked
like a giant close family
i’d never seen anything like it;
i was told earlier their protest worked,
my flight to sydney leaves soon
but all i can think about is a girl i met at
the muay thai camp
while planes continue to arrive and depart
full of passengers—
all hoping to reach their destinations.


SATORI ON A TUESDAY NIGHT IN KINGS CROSS

to bleed is to live
and the candy cane
decapitates the tortoise
while the locusts waltz
and the flagpoles eat all
the grass—
bottles replacing dreams,
fear replacing sense,
sex destroying everything;
as paint lights up my dark
room now in sydney on this
tuesday night:
the air on fire
and flames beautiful.


FLEEING FROM THE AVALANCHE

Some days the stone
gods have broken
&
fan can’t push past
the dust on the grill
&
dogs prefer to bark
at dwarfs on mars
&
walls melt like
ice blocks poisoning
the ground with
artificial flavour
&
the mermaids walk
freely without tails
&
guitar strings break
before hitting the
right note
&
sparrows chew cats
with no special effort
&
blood crashes like angry
Hawaiian waves
&
the words always keep
finding reasons not
to come:
somedays
the eyes cut like razors
somedays
its best to go back to sleep.


WHERE I’M COMING FROM

I am the breeze, the drunken hangover, the closing down sale
I am the coward, the villain, the midnight jester
I am the bottomless pit, the headache tablet, the blood on the canvas
I am the failed attack, the wasted pick up line, the weary face of experience
I am the cracks in the sidewalk, the day old candle, the unknown torrent
I am the silent tombstone, the last man standing, the drunkest guy at the bar
I am the January sunrise, the purple bobsled, the shark in the river
I am Australian, the traffic lights on William Street, the nervous bats in the
Botanical Gardens in Sydney; Sydney the greed, Sydney the hatred,
Sydney the ugliness, Sydney the silent wars—Sydney the most anti-social
city in Australia, Sydney the 24 hour hot dog stand, Sydney the one legged
pigeon, Sydney the 3pm traffic jam on Elizabeth Street, Sydney the legal
brothel, Sydney the illegal expression; Sydney the dirty street, Sydney the
the cardboard lounge room, Sydney the neon mansion, Sydney the heavenly
power bill; Sydney the unflappable economy, Sydney the ridiculous politician,
Sydney the hand afraid to smack the deserving, Sydney the silent anger,
Sydney the fear of change; Sydney the blind arrogance, Sydney the
architectural maze, Sydney the screaming, Sydney the dying, Sydney the
inbred mind, Sydney the empty wallet of ambition; Sydney the glass idol,
Sydney the wordless script, Sydney the fan in the desert, Sydney the melting
bag of ice, Sydney the house of no reform; Sydney the conservative, Sydney
the satisfied, Sydney the brain dead, Sydney the celebrity, Sydney the
criminal; Sydney the average, Sydney the athlete, Sydney the rich, Sydney
the pension, Sydney the desperate, Sydney the great big waste; no fishing
in the polluted harbour, no partying after midnight, no drinking once you
are drunk, no saying a new thing; Sydney the hero, Sydney the prince,
Sydney the island of Hades; Sydney the ugly, Sydney the base of the mad,
Sydney the lodging of the dead, delirious, insane; the couch, the table,
the futon, the spa bath, the inflatable mattress: Sydney the great nirvana
of my tortured soul.